


A Tale of Suspension: Lonely in the Dark

by PhoenixDragon



Series: A Tale of Suspension: Lonely in the Dark [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Gen, Horror, J/11 UST (if you squint), Language, References to Canon!Slash, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon





	A Tale of Suspension: Lonely in the Dark

  
**  
~Part Four~   
**   


  


_He thought he had found a way out. He thought that Koschei had found someone -_

 _No, that was right. Koschei had not been Koschei for a long, long time. He was...he was -_

 __Evil. __

 _No, that wasn't right either._

 _But it must be._

 _His head hurt so much, his throat was so, so_ dry _._

 _He was so sure he had fallen down that old mine shaft at the estate. But if he had, that was forever ago (yesterday); that was another time, another man._

 _Or was it?_

 _He had been so sure. Just he had been so sure that he had been rescued. But it was_ dark _again._

 _He had been tricked by the Spector._

 _He had been warned about them (a millenia ago, a week ago), they tricked you – they played with your mind when your Time came. He had thought there had been light, that there had been sound...a Voice -_

 __My Doctor. __

 _But he was wrong – it was another Trick._

 _His throat was so_ dry _._

 _“Susan,” Theta-The Doctor-Theta gasped. “Where are you, girl? Speak to me!”_

 _He struggled to get off the hard bed he was laying on, hindered by some contraption that had locked over his legs. He found the strength to push it off and heard a screech of metal against metal, then the sounds of something heavy collapsing on his right._

 _Was he in a prison? Where was he?_

 __And why was it _dark_ again? __

 _“Tricks – all tricks! Sarah! Sarah Jane – we've got to...we've got to get out of here! K-9! K-9 come!” He could hear the panic in his voice, the rasp of sand over rock of what was left of his voice; but his Father's Lessons were long gone and far away._

 _Futile, if he had reached this point._

 _There had been the Dark, then Light-Sound-the Ring of the Voices of Home...then Dark, again._

 _He struggled out of the bed (gurney? apparatus? death machine?) and felt his hearts kick in on high, pounding out of rhythm as he staggered to his feet, only to have his head smack off of another immobile object._

 _He blinked stars out of his eyes, the blow sending streaks of white and blue lights through his mind, behind his eyes and he had to stifle a shout of pain._

 _They could be listening._

 _They could be watching._

 __Who are They? __

 _He had to find a way out of here. Find a way out of the Dark – Jo would know...she was uncanny, that girl._

 _No, wait – he was confused again._

 _His aching head throbbed unmercifully, worse now after the whack it took. His mouth was so, so dry – legs weak, watery, his hearts racing, racing. He stumbled to the left, away from the (machines?) and the bed-trap, hands splayed in front of him – eyes wide and unseeing; too afraid to use his extra senses -_

 __The Nothingness. __

 _In case he got caught out that way. They could use that against you, They could hurt you –_

 _'_ Have hurt me. _'_

 _With your own mind. Bend it back against you. But there were worse things...much, much worse things They could do -_

 _The Spector could come back at any time._

 _He would take him before the Judgement and he would fail (somehow, he knew this), and he would forever be lost to The Vortex; no ending in sight, falling through Time over and over and over and -_

 _He sobbed drily, no longer able to fight the fear and confusion in the endless, endless Dark. They had abandoned him...his friends, his Companions (his loves – for he did, he loved all of them, even as he destroyed them), and wasn't that right? Wasn't that_ fitting _? Proper?_

 _His searching hands found nothing in front of him, but his weak legs found something blocking his way. Hard edged surfaces cut into his thigh and right hip, his left foot slamming into the same unyielding surface and he went sprawling, encountering more obstacles and hard surfaces as he wheeled madly, trying to find his balance. His right elbow knocked into something, just as his left knee collided with something else, left hand hitting the same object on his way down and he landed on his ass, the back of his head slamming into the side of (what he assumed to be) his bed/prison._

 _He had a flashing recollection of having already hit the back of his head -_

 __White lights, something Singing and Soothing, even as the Spector, the Thing with No Time and All Time haunted him with a face that was familiar and yet not; then Pain, then...the Dark. __

 _He wrapped his left arm around his legs, drawing himself into a tight ball as he bit down on his right hand to stop himself from crying out in pain or just wailing for someone –_ anyone _._

 __I don't...I don't know what to do - __

 _“That's a new feeling...” He whispered, words familiar and yet not._

 _Everything was_ familiar _yet_ not _._

 _“Help me.” He whimpered, shame flushing his face, spreading a chill through his hearts. “Somebody, please..._ help me _.”_

 _He sobbed drily, too dehydrated for tears to come, air too thick in his dry throat. He keened in weighted grief (quietly, so quietly), rocking (ever so slightly) in the Dark of This Place._

 _Nothing was real – but Everything was real._

 _“Susan...Jo...Benton...Sarah...please,” he rasped, unsure if they were/had been real._

 _Was it all a dream – was_ he _a Dream?_

 _Terror and confusion left him exhausted, and his grief over things that were or had never been left him only that much more drained and cold. He had no idea how long he had been here, in This Place; his sense of Time failing him again as he sat forever ago, for a few minutes, in the prison of his failed memory._

 _Snatches of words and images, times and places assaulted him as he stared into the Dark, ever aware that They could come back – that the Spector could find him again; though he was almost too tired to care. Everything ached and throbbed, his hearts thudded in painful gallops (so out of synch), as his head spun with too much and yet too little information and...no one was going to come for him._

 _No one good, that was._

 _“Help me,” he murmured, soft into the muffled, echoing Dark. “Please...”_

 _Another few minutes stretched and breathed around the Black; he held his breath with it, waiting –_

 __For what? __

 _For something, anything to happen. He couldn't (wouldn't) fight them; he wouldn't even know where to begin – but anything, anything would be better than the endless darkness and confusion and fear. He should refuse to go down like this, cowering in some hole like a wild animal, but he was tired, he was (old) worn down; even his body was rebelling against him._

 _Maybe he could just lay down, right here and wait...for just a minute. The Spector would come, yes, maybe he could find a way out when it did – but that was a lot of 'maybe' for so little to go on. He would just rest (he had to rest) for just a minute; then maybe he could find his hope again, maybe he could find a way to make (be at ) peace when he wasn't so exhausted, so confused and so, so old down to his bones._

 _He had barely gotten himself lowered (carefully) to the floor, when the world quaked around him and something heavy landed across his lower back. With a cry of pain, he was sent sprawling, the same point on his head he had injured minutes before (forever ago) when climbing out of the device (bed?machine?toture rack?), meeting the floor before he could brace himself. He heard the thud more than he felt it, then he didn't hear or feel anything else._

  


  
**DW~TW~DW~TW~DW**   


  
It seemed to take forever for the TARDIS to 'touch down'.

The ride through The Vortex was longer and rougher than he remembered, the Old Girl wheezing and staggering Her way through the Time-Tunnel until She finally popped out on the other side; a little worse for wear for the tumbling and shaking She received in the Vortex, Her stabilizers an unnecessary function for the actual take off and landing procedures.

“Destination: Cardiff, Earth, 21st Century. Time is 15:00 hours Sol Time rotation,” The Interface droned out of nowhere, image fizzing and sputtering from lack of power. Jack jumped and glared at the unflinching countenance (when it stabilized), muttering unpleasantries under his breath that got him an equally withering glare in return, as It rattled off the exact coordinates of their landing point. “All sensors functioning, power minimal for materilisation, please prepare for landing.”

Jack raced around the controls, flipping switches and levers where indicated by the nudges of the TARDIS and the (once more) guiding lights on Her Main Control Hub.

“Okay, okay - almost there, baby. You're doing great,” Jack soothed as the TARDIS rumbled to Herself, roundels flashing in (what felt like) warning. Most of the remaining power had been depleted while they had spun through the Vortex, so fully realized materilization was going to be sketchy at best. The fact the old Type 40 had made it through the Vortex at all was clearly a miracle, but Jack wasn't looking to count his blessing just yet. He needed to get them landed and the medbay turned back on before he'd do that.

He turned the two knobs that looked like part of an old-fashioned faucet set and type in the coordinates indicated by the Interface, hitting 'Enter' before pulling something that looked like the knob of an old pinball machine.

“I'll say this...at least this one is more fun – though it does looked designed by a twelve-year old,” the Captain mused. “Oh well, here goes nothing!”

He then hit a bell, yanked another lever and attached himself to the console as She rocked and shook, engines wheezing as they tried to gather enough power for one final jump. The Interface flickered out then back in again, pixilised face impassive as it gave one final series of (broken) instructions, following up with safety measures like a damned flight attendant as the lights inside the main console room flashed and flared in an uncoordinated pattern.

“ - all sentient...and life-forms brace...emergency landing.” The Interface intoned, voice crackling in and out of being along with It's form. “All...rerouted...safe...materilization. Interface powering – “

And then it was gone in a flash of light as the control room dimmed and hummed, two, three of the lights in the roundels nearby popping like fireworks as the old TARDIS wheezed and coughed to Her destination. Her Rotor jiggled and swayed in its housing as it descended and rose, stopping only once as it tried to gather the necessary power to materilise.

Jack hardly noticed the lights going out, didn't pay any mind (except maybe a mild relief) when the Interface shut itself off – everything he had focused in the Rotor and the lights of the console. If something went wrong that Rotor would be the first thing to stop and if that happened, he'd go out of his way to find the Doctor (even as the Old Girl came apart around them), and say goodbye and sorry and all the thousand and one things he'd always wished he could say – to his team, to those he loved. But no one would understand more than the Time-Lord; and when the end came, where else would he want to be?

At least he could say he gave it his best shot.

It took an eternity – even longer than sailing through the Vortex – and he was flying blind. The viewscreen had powered down after they had reached their first destination point and he was lost in the dark, unsure if they were even landing in the right place. A thousand things could have gone wrong – he could have typed in the wrong coordinates, hit the wrong levers, pushed the wrong buttons; so he concentrated on the Rotor and put his faith in the TARDIS. It was all up to Her in the end, all he had to do was wait and hope he had done his part well.

His faith was rewarded only a minute or so later when She set up to materilise, that wonderful screeching groan that was Her habit when 'parking' telling him that it had all gone well. It had turned out fine – they were safe.

She landed with a mild boom, whole structure shaking as She inserted herself neatly on top of the Rift, hardly being there nan-seconds before She opened up her Time-Ports. Arctron energy swirling through the bottom of Her engines to be funneled through Her main housing, lights flickering back on in response to the surge of new power as She refueled Her dying cells. It was a beautiful sight, a glorious display of light and color -

But Jack wasn't there to see any of it. He didn't even poke his head out the door to see if the weather was fine (or the usual drizzle). Jack had one thought and one thought only: It was the thought that had brought him to Hell, it was the thought that had him pulling himself and another man out of said Hell – it was the reason he had fought to get the TARDIS to a safe location where She could get Her bearings back.

And that thought was: Find the Doctor.

  


  
**DW~TW~DW~TW~DW**   


  
Jack didn't remember the running dash through the corridors.

He didn't remember the lights winking on with each footfall, as the TARDIS rerouted power to guide his way.

He didn't remember finally stumbling into the doorway of the medbay, stifled shout on his lips (so he wouldn't wake the healing Time-Lord).

He barely remembered his shock at seeing the disarray of the formerly prisitine and gleaming room; machines overturned and sparking dangerously on the floor, medicines and bandages and all a manner of things (both recognised and not) tumbled carelessly out of cabinets and drawers – the landing rougher here than in the console hub. He barely remembered any of that, but he did remember one thing out of all the chaos of that room.

He remembered finding the Doctor.

He remembered hauling him out from under the over-turned bed (wrenching his back when he did so) and feeling for a pulse, mouth dry with fear when he couldn't seem to find one. The Doctor's face so gray and _old_ under the newly powered glare of the white lights overhead.

He remembered finding his pulse and nearly crying with relief. He remembered the TARDIS pushing at his mind and dashing once more (all over again) through the corridors with the Doctor in his arms, lighter than ever and so very _faded_ with each breath he struggled to take. Almost like he was disappearing right in front of him.

He remembered running and running and lights leading the way – TARDIS humming in sorrow and shock and urgency; Her song pouring through his heart (his one and only heart pounding its lonely way in his chest with each stride of his legs) and up through the soles of his feet, pushing him faster and faster until (as if in a dream), a Door materilized in front of him.

He remembered entering the Door and laying the Doctor on a raised platform in the middle, before backing away (reluctantly) at the TARDIS urging, his last glimpse of The Time-Lord muddled and confusing – Jack's mind registering only a haze of white light around him, sure he was hearing what must be the Voice of the TARDIS as the Door closed, sealing the Doctor in and shutting the Captain out.

But he remembered.

Later he would come to know that Door and what it contained as the Zero Room.

Also known as the Room of Last Resort.

  


  
**DW~TW~DW~TW~DW**   


  
It was a full 24 hours before Jack was allowed back in to get him.

But he hadn't known that at the time.

He dozed fitfully against the door, before waking with an ugly ache in his back, the pain right above his hips like rusty, dull teeth against his spine. It took him a few minutes to haul himself up from the floor and (with one last wistful look at the Door behind him), make his way to the trashed medical bay with the supposed idea of finding Tylenol (or the equivilent thereof), amongst the scattered detris on the cabinets and floor.

An hour and a half later, Tylenol (oddly labeled iminitrinolinate) in his system with a nice coffee chaser from the galley, he had the medical bay back to (somewhat) pristine order. The only thing marring the overall look was the pile of broken machinery towards the back of the room, moved there with a few curses and some cuts and bruises before he finally called it 'good enough' and went in search of his old room.

Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, depending on your viewpoint), he found it pretty much the same way he left it, the only difference being the zapped Vortex Manipulator sitting on the dresser, tools laid out neatly around it to be worked on at his leisure (if such time could be allowed) and Jack had to suppress a smile at the sentimentality of the old machine; how She had always cared for him and accepted him – even when Her pilot had not.

“Sweet Old Girl,” he murmured, breathing in the air of his old room and delighting that there were fresh clothes in the closet and toiletries in the half-bath. “You always have been so good to me.”

He didn't bother to freshen up, though – the last 72 hours alone taking its toll on his overall mind and body. Usually one to at least brush his teeth and wash his face before calling it a day, Jack Harkness staggered his way to his old bed and fell across it face first with a grateful sigh, asleep before his head hit the pillow – boots still firmly laced to his feet.  



End file.
